the ugly writers

Absence of Presence

Absence of Presence

 

Has anyone seen me? I know I used to be here,

perhaps there, somewhere. I feel so lost, much like

bones withering away into dust. But in a breeze.

I feel like a nine-tailed cat, standing straight and tall

then bent over in marsh winds waving to all at the lake,

lost fantasies rise skyward. Passion blooms; life après.

Depth of a cranky shade of listless yet excited bliss.

Blessed by the thoughts and prayers of strangers, love

enhanced by a whisper. But has anyone seen me?

Elders cry for the children, begging souls to return home.

Keep of life’s clock, turn the key and spike the pendulum

humming a sonnet in rhyme. Am I a musical note?

As the demons and hunger invoked sincere repentance

for thieving loaves of bread. Whilst all distressed lives calmly

exhaled their last before the hot ovens inhaled the dead.

Into a grave with 7 million others! I feel the chills of those

evenings long forgotten, repent your worst, tarry to knit your

burial throw, but please, look into the corner, next to the bin.

Perhaps I’m there, or just maybe, I’m in the dybbuk box!